07-22-2015, 10:38 PM
He is drawn to all things powerful, like a moth pulled into an open flame. There is a gravity there, some type on unseen force like the draw the moon has on the ocean waves. It only makes sense, given his own self-assuredness and overall demeanor that he would seek out those who have something to offer him. Unfortunately, he doesn’t often find it. After all, the stallion made of fire and gasoline is almost in a class of his own.
Hopefully is fortunes are soon to turn.
He slips into the Meadow like smoke, winding his way through the trees quietly and efficiently. His hooves make little, if any, sound as he moves through the night. It is quiet here, too quiet for his liking. With a snort he creates fire, relishing the warmth of the flames as they spread across the dead and dying foliage. The flames lick along his legs and underbelly, long hot fingers twirling along in his tangled mane and tail. A contended sigh leaves his lips and as it does the flames push forward. He knows he should draw them back (it is fall, after all) before they get out of control. That’s laughable; he is their master and not vice versa. They go when and where he tells them. And so he stands there quite alone, surrounded by nothing but his beloved creation. What would someone think should they arrive? He doesn’t give a damn. He could find out if bodies burned as easily as dead leaves.
flamevein
i set fire to the rain